


i'll be a better man today

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Blanket Permission, F/M, Partially ASOIAF compliant, Past Sexual Abuse, R plus L equals J, amen, canon can go hang, fuck d&d forever and ever, jon's real name is jahaerys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 09:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11756886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: “Sansa,” she corrects angrily, cheeks burning hot, her throat thick with embarrassment and tears and a chorus ofstupidstupidstupid- “You used to call meSansa."





	i'll be a better man today

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to walk a fine line between the books and the HBO adaptation because?? Masochism probably, ugh. Also, apologies in advance for the, like, excrutiating levels of angst lol. Jon Snow is such a broody baby smh _why do I love him?_ (Also masochism, probably.)  
>  This work is unbeta'd, and any mistakes are my own.

_"I never meant to start a fire,_  
_I never meant to make you bleed,_  
_I'll be a better man today."_

* * *

" _Sansa!" Rickon calls, and she stops. She doesn't turn around to face him. Not after this._  
_"We need this," he says lowly, desperation edging his words. "You understand. We need the Targaryen alliance to survive the winter."  
"You didn't ask me, Rickon," she says, the words splintering like ice. "I'm your _ sister _. I'm the lady of this keep. You've should've asked."_ I would have said yes, _she thinks, but she doesn't say it out loud._ I know my duty. I would have accepted Jon- _Jaehaerys_ Snow.

* * *

They've left him in his breeches, she notes with a hysterical sort of jealousy. Not her, though. They stripped her clean. She had been tossed into the bedchamber with her hands clutching her chest, her eyes shut so tight her face hurt.  
Gods above, she hates the bloody bedding ceremony.

Now, from under the blankets, she watches him. The firelight limns him in gold, catching in the dark, wind blown curls, turning his dark eyes the violet-blue of winter roses. He's lovely, she thinks with a shock of awareness. She wonders why she didn't notice Jon when they were younger, fingers restlessly clenching and releasing in the covers. She wonders if perhaps it was because his last name was Snow.

Seven hells, but she'd been a right bitch then, hadn't she? No wonder he'd wanted to marry Arya.

* * *

_"The Prince is here," Bran said, his pupils rolled back and staring at nothing. The whites of his eyes reflected grey skies. Sansa suppressed a shiver. "He rides over the hill."_

_"How many with him?" Rickon asked, pushing Bran's wheeled chair down a long corridor._

_"Few, for a royal party. Less than a hundred and even then outriders, mostly. The wagons carry supplies for the long march, and gifts. For us, I think. There are Dothraki in his retinue." Sansa tenses, as does Rickon. Bran is placidly unaffected, and for a brief, ungracious moment, Sansa hates him._

* * *

 Jon stands by the fire for a long time, it seems, or maybe it is only her fear that draws it out. The hearth is enormous, throwing the line of his spine in shadow, casting his skin bronze. The mantel is high, near his sternum, and he dips his hands into the fire, caressing the flames like a lover.

Sansa can't help a gasp then and, startled, he turns to her, his eyes wide, as if he had forgotten he wasn't alone. Sansa stares at his unburnt hand and then back to him, gaping and looking probably quite stupid.  
She flushes, splotchy and red.

"Don't- Don't be afraid, my lady," Jon says, hesitantly stepping towards her. His eyes are wide - and so lovely, a rich, velvety violet. His chest is dark with hair, a thin line arrowing down from his navel into his smallclothes and Sansa finds she can't look away, cheeks heating with something utterly unlike fear. Joffrey had always been so- _smooth_.

"I'm not afraid," Sansa snaps, nostrils flaring. But she is, a bit.

Jon staggers back at that, and Sansa smirks at him, feeling a little surge of victory, at this stranger who wears such a beloved mask. _I am not a maiden,_ she wants to remind this newly-minted princeling. _I have been bullied and beaten and nearly raped. I have been used and toyed with and tortured. I have looked upon our-_ my _father's rotting head. You can't do anything to me. And you cannot_ scare _me._  

Jon rocks on his heels, and flashes a rare grin. "That is good to hear, my lady." And Sansa tries not to feel a little too warm.

* * *

_During those terrible months at the capital, after her father had been murdered, after her sister had disappeared, after-_

_She had tried so_ hard _, she remembered, tried so_ hard _to be pleased that she would be queen. It was the_ only _thing she'd ever, ever wanted and for years and years, she'd prayed_ so _hard-_

_She hadn't known it would cost her so much. Her father and her sister and her home and her honor-_

_And then Margaery Tyrell had come to the Red Keep, with her pretty dresses and tip-tilted eyes, and a smile like a knife. Then, Sansa had known true horror._

_But she kept her mouth shut, her eyes averted, her neck bowed in deference to the cruel boy King. Her nails had dug bloody crescents into her palms, and at night, she had dreamt of Ned Stark riding in on a stormy destrier and swinging Ice, slicing the king's head clean from his body, and rivers of blood flowing freely through the throne room as Joffrey's decapitated head screamed._

* * *

 "Fire cannot hurt a dragon," Jon says quietly.

Sansa sits up against the pillows, coverlet tucked around her body, leaving her shoulders bare. Her hair brushes her bare skin, silken and soft. It feels... nice. He sits beside her, facing her, weight braced back on his hands. Sansa looks at him as he breathes, chest rippling subtly with movement, and she swallows hard.

"Is that what you are?" she asks, trying and failing to not sound tentative, shy. "A dragon?"

Her last husband had ripped away the covers before sating himself with her body. Joffrey, too, had wanted things from her - her screams and her pain and her humiliation. Harry had been an angel, then - the worst she'd suffered was the pain when he would take her, dry and hot. The way he'd grasp at her breasts, pressing wet, slobbery kisses to her still, clenched body. _Jon_ though, Jon doesn't seem in a hurry at all. Mayhaps- Mayhaps he simply doesn't care for her looks. Her gut clenches with shame. _He had wanted Arya._

Jon chuckles. "I don't know, my lady. I was of Winterfell for so long..."

"They say you ride Viserion," she says abruptly, not wanting to think about the girl she had been, the boy he had been. She tries, instead, to think of him circling the skies atop a monstrous reptilian beast. It's surprisingly easy.

"Viserion _permits_ to be ridden," Jon says wryly. "Occasionally."  
He looks at her for a long moment, and she realizes with a sudden jolt that they've come close, so close. She can see the strange indigo of his eyes, drowning in black, the tracery of faint white scars near his brow. She could kiss him, she thinks. An inch, two, that's all. He would taste like the wine she'd chosen for the wedding, like Arbor gold, and suddenly she craves it, her heart breaking into frenzy, craving a kiss like honey and spice and gold.

* * *

_Everything had changed, and yet, somehow, nothing had._

_Jon may have been heir to the Six Kingdoms now, but Rickon was still King in the North. Dragons had come to the world and the Night King had returned and a Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne, but when Rickon Stark walked to welcome their guests, Jon-_ Jaehaerys _, Jaehaerys Snow and his one hundred vassals had taken the knee._

_Even princes bowed to kings, after all._

_He'd looked at her, once they'd risen and embraced and called each other brothers. "Greetings, princess," he'd said, grave and dignified, and Sansa had shivered. He had worn the cloak she'd made for him, the one like Father used to wear, and with the Valyrian steel at his hip, the stormy destrier that nickered behind him, Jaehaerys Snow had looked eerily like the avenging Ned Stark of her dreams._

* * *

 He slides his hand through the heavy furs of the coverlet, the pressure of his palm dampened through the fabric, past her knee, her trembling thigh, the luxurious curve of her hip. He lets it rest on her waist, thumb tracing circles just above her navel. His hands are hot, burning hot, and she breathes in sharply, looking down where the amber skin of his hand lies against the silver-grey coverlet, half-expecting to see smoke rise off singed fur.

“You’re so warm,” she says, wonderingly, before cringing. _You’re so warm?_ What is she, fifteen?

But Jon doesn’t seem to mind, because he chuckles. “It started after- After Dragonstone. The incident with Viserion-" He shakes his head, as if trying to discard a bad memory like a dog shaking off water.

There are many things Sansa could’ve said to that.

 _Did Daenerys truly order the dragon to burn you?_  
_Did you truly survive dragon fire?_  
_Did you want to marry Arya?_  
_Do you love her?_

All of them would’ve been better. All of them less horrible, less naked than the truth she blurts out, “ _You were supposed to come back,_ ” she cries. Her vision’s blurring, she realizes with horror. She _can’t_ cry, not now, not in front of _him_ \- "Why didn’t you come _back_ , Jon?”

His eyes widen, and Sansa looks away, gasping in deep breaths. She _can’t_ cry, she _won’t_ cry-  
“My _lady_ ,” he says, choked, his voice dropped so low it sounds like it must hurt.

“ _Sansa_ ,” she corrects angrily, cheeks burning hot, her throat thick with embarrassment and tears and a chorus of _stupidstupidstupid_ \- “You used to call me _Sansa_."

* * *

  _“Where's Arya?” he’d asked._

 _It had been the first thing he said to her -_ where’s Arya? _Still, Sansa knew how it had been, with those two. And Jon had always been the brother Arya had loved best._

 _“She left Winterfell."_  
_“She-_ what?!"  
_Sansa winced. “There was this… boy."_  
_“A boy. She left her_ home _, over some_ boy?! _"_  
_She sighed. “His name is Gendry Waters-"_  
_“Over a bastard!"_  
_Sansa levelled him a bland look, and Jon looked away. “His name is Gendry_ Waters _,” she repeated purposefully, “and his true father is Robert Baratheon."_  
“Robert _\- He’s one of the royal bastards? And-_ Arya _?” But he sounded plaintive then, genuinely confused. Sansa resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him. He’d be warm, she knew, deliciously hot, and smelling of thyme and leather and sweat, and she would never let him go again._  
_“And nothing, Jon. Arya loves him. He’s mad for her, if that helps.”_  
_Jon exhaled explosively, scrubbing his face and staring into the middle distance. “You know, I’m not sure it does."_  
_“Why?” she demanded, wrapping her arms around her chest. “After everything she’s seen- She deserves her happiness, Jon."_  
_“Yes, but... Well. The Queen won’t be pleased."_  
_Sansa hissed a horrified breath. “Seven hells-_ Gendry _. We never thought. Is Gendry in danger? He won’t make a play for the crown, Jon! He doesn’t care about any of it, Jon you mustn’t let her hurt him!"_

_Jon looked taken aback by her vehemence. “No,” he soothed. “No, my lady, that’s not it at all. Arya- I’m here to ask Rickon for Arya’s hand in marriage."_

_She flinched like she’d been struck._ Oh _, she thought, shocked into quiet._ Oh _._

* * *

_“Sansa,”_ he says, and it sounds like a prayer, like a man who’s met his gods.

“I _waited_ for you,” she says, confession spilling out of her like meltwater in spring, gushing and unstoppable. “When they said you had won at Eastwatch. When they said you rode dragons and defeated the white walkers. When they said Daenerys had named you heir. I waited and _waited_ , Jon. They told me you wouldn't come - and I said, I said to them all - he doesn’t break promises, not my brother. He said he’d come back, I said, and so he shall. I sounded like _such a fool!"_

“But I'm _not!”_ Jon swore, violence in his eyes, in the way his fingers bit into her waist through the covers. “I’m not your bloody _brother_! I’m a Targaryen!” he snarls, spitting the name like a curse. He wrenches himself away, rage held ruthlessly in check, as if he can’t bear to look at her.  
"That’s _my_ blood, Sansa! Madmen and murderers, thrice-damned fools, and each one of them more mad for power than the last!"

He was shaking, she realized, tremors running down the length of his body, shame and loathing hunching his back, shrouding his gaze. She remembers how he’d looked, that day they’d named him King. Proud and brave and brilliant. She wants that Jon back. She wants _her_ Jon back. And _damn_  him if thinks she isn’t enough.

She _is._

She _will_ be.

Sansa pushes aside the covers, her skin prickling from the sudden rush of air. She pads down to him, shy but unashamed, lacing her fingers through his, turning to face him. His eyes are closed.

 _“Jon,”_ she whispers, cupping his jaw, feeling it clench under her palm. She strokes his cheekbone with her thumb, stubble making her skin catch against his. “I didn’t care. I don’t care. You should’ve _come_. Why-" But it feels like she’s begging. and she _won’t_. Not even for him.

“What right did I have?” he says, bowing his head to press their foreheads together. His breath fans across her collarbone, hot like a caress, and her nipple buds under his shadow.

“You are a _Stark_ ,” she says fiercely, stepping so close her breasts could brush his darkened chest, so close the breath that leaves her is his breath, so close that his lips leave on hers ghostly, flickering kisses. “You will _always_ be a Stark. And this will always be your _home,_ Jon."

He opens his eyes.

She watches him as he looks at her, all fiery hair and pale, bared skin, the way he seems to tauten with something like hunger. “ _Sansa_ ,” he groans, hoarse, his big hands cupping her nape, burning against the small of her back and she thinks _this_ is how he should always say her name, like she’s everything he could ever need.

* * *

 

 _"I've been cold, I've been merciless_  
_But the blood on my hands scares me to death_  
_Maybe I'm waking up today."_

_\- Jaymes Young, 'I'll Be Good'_

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08kyzQB9J6k)  
> Come fangirl (and/or cry) with me on twitter and tumblr @dropofrum. Thanks for reading!


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